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Extrait :
I. You've asked me to explain what my best and worst qualities are. So let me begin by saying that it's hard, ladies and gentlemen, for me to consider myself a bad person. I mean, I experience qualms, sometimes more serious and sometimes less. Everyone, evena real champion of immorality, sees himself as good. Or as working for the good, no matter if his actions--looked at one by one--are transparently self-serving, murderous, etc. Kind of a strong argument against the value of terms like good or bad. People feelthis way even now, in 1999, when we're all supposed to be repenting and wailing and gnashing our teeth. But you can't go through life without making any distinctions. And selling small-to-medium amounts of weed to safe, calm rich kids (which I spent much ofmy spare time these past four years doing) is not a behavior worth agonizing over. That would make it seem too important, you know? I don't even need the money.
Nonetheless--judged by my actions--I am a bad person. Let's get that clear, so you don't have any misconceptions. For more than one-fifth of my life to date, I was a drug dealer, albeit a minor one, and a client of more successful, higher-volume drug dealers,who are in turn clients of bigger firms, and so on and so on until infinity. Grim, right? Human, but grim. I owned a digital pharmacy scale. An expensive black safe, which at the peak of my prosperity contained $12,380 in four shoe boxes, the cash organizedin bundles by denomination. (How lame is that!) A gun, although that was a later acquisition. A suspicious supply of Biggie-brand plastic bags. A pager. All the sordid, dead-giveaway equipment.
I am eighteen years and five days old. I live in a tree-heavy upper-middle-class neighborhood in Washington, D.C., with my father, who makes clay pots. He also teaches classes at our city's semi-renowned art academy, the Cochrane Institute. Classes abouthow to make clay pots. My name is Addison Schacht, if you can believe it: my dead mother's dead father was named Addison. Because I am an unknown quantity, I am unpopular, even now, my last year, in my class at John F. Kennedy Senior High School. How unknown,you ask? I could not, under pain of death, tell you where a single member of my class wants to attend college, that's how little I have to do with them. I have no extracurricular activities beyond the study of Latin and the collection of offensive jokes aboutthe Holocaust. I live on X Street, on the Xth floor, I weigh X pounds. What do you want? An index of my soul? My dick measurements? I could give them; I'm not ashamed or anything. But would they help you understand? This whole involved and stupefying story has been gnawing away at me, though. Which is why I'm writing it. To like unburden myself. I've wasted enoughtime. And I'm not unintelligent; don't think that. On every practice test I took, my scores were identical to what I ended up getting on the real SAT: 770 verbal and 650 math. This is from three sets of results. How's that for precision? On my battery of AdvancedPlacement tests, I scored three fives and two fours. I've got nothing else. Except for one silver and one gold medal on the National Latin Exam. Latin literature is devoid of most human feeling, but I'm still proud of my medals: my teachers have been a goddamnembarrassment.
Selling weed did not figure in my list of permanent plans when I started four years ago, right after I arrived at Kennedy. Just a little, at first. But it was easy, and more challenging than my classwork. It also gave me a foothold in the school's ecology,which I wouldn't otherwise have discovered. I didn't think overmuch about it. People wanted it, they came to expect I could provide it, and then I found myself the proprietor of a small but flourishing business. I promised myself that I'd stop when I graduated.Just for practical reasons. And I did manage to stop doing it, even before my target date. This was not out of volition. Circumstance played its usual forceful role, in the form of a classmate of mine named Kevin Broadus.
Kevin was this quiet, stocky kid, a marching-band geek. I didn't really know him, except to nod at between classes. And because he was one of the handful of black kids in the Gifted and Talented Program, I was just sort of aware of him. At least untilour junior year, when, about five months before the brutal events occurred that got his name in the papers, Kevin did something that I found . . . admirable is maybe the best word. Or not admirable, because it's presumptuous to admire someone you don't speakto on a regular basis. But uncompromising. It happened in February. Ms. Prather, our English teacher last year, was going on and on in this artificial way about what's called "black history." February, as I'm sure you know, is Black History Month, an occasionof much wariness and nervous self-congratulation among the teachers in the Gifted and Talented Program here at Kennedy. We learn, every year, the same tired story, like a long round in a game: the founders were hypocrites, the Three-Fifths Compromise was bad,the Dred Scott decision was bad, Frederick Douglass good, Booker T. Washington bad, Tuskegee Experiment bad, Tuskegee Airmen good, Langston Hughes good, jazz good, and we're all still racists today. Thanks for playing! It's like this compressed version of Americanhistory, one that fails to do justice to all the complex nonsense that people get up to in political life, and also fails completely to convey any real sense of how awful life must have been (and in a lot of ways still is) in America for slaves and their descendants.It's like a gesture. I don't know how else to describe it.
So: we were talking about Music and Its Relation to African American Literature. And Ms. Prather was in the spitty middle of her oration about how great it was that African American literature was not constrained in the way the other literature of itstime was, how it was filled with a new and vital energy, a rhythmic current. A lot of the kids in my class nodded along, some of them actually convinced. And after she had reached her crescendo, waving her hands and making her voice throb, after she had herlittle like orgasm or whatever, she stopped and looked at Kevin and said, "But let's ask our resident musician. Don't you agree, Mr. Broadus?" I wish I could communicate the hideous empty quiet that followed her remark. Everyone craned around in their woodenchair-desk combo sets to stare at Kevin, who gazed at his hands. The afternoon sun slanted down and blanked out his glasses. And he said, "Not particularly." That's all. Ms. Prather stood with her hands lifted and her mouth open. She looked hurt, wobbly-eyedat Kevin's betrayal. The silence persisted. Then Ms. Prather sighed and said, "Well, it's generally accepted, Kevin." More silence. Kevin spoke again. "Yeah, but if it's accepted, why did you ask me." Someone spluttered a laugh into cupped hands. Ms. Pratherhad literally nothing to say. So she repeated herself. As though Kevin did not exist. And we continued with our lesson. This is the only clear memory I have of Kevin speaking in class. Again, I don't want to presume and call it admirable. But it demonstrated real brassiness of balls, in my opinion. I wantedto congratulate him, but he lost himself among the sighing after-class crowd before I could. It's lucky, I guess: that would have been a kind of presumption, too.
Kennedy is a segregated school, I should mention. Not because black kids are less able or whatever, but because--and I'm theorizing here--because my neighborhood and the other neighborhoods that provide it with its white students are filled with the kindof parents who just love black people--in the abstract. And Kennedy is majority black, by a considerable margin. And they (the neighborhood parents, I mean) all originally wanted their kids to go to private school, anyway. So all these ex-hippie history andEnglish teachers at Kennedy like twenty years ago set up this little 90 percent white school inside Kennedy, the Gifted and Talented Program, and they let in six black kids or so every year to balm their consciences, and set up pantomimes like Black HistoryMonth and Diversity Outreach (which is just as horrifyingly inept as its name suggests). Although if they had consciences would they have set up these internal divisions in the first place? But whatever. Kevin stood out because of all these accidents, thesecircumstances. Through no fault of his own he was visible. He played in the marching band, like I said: baritone saxophone. And he worked after school at Second Mate Stubb's, which is a nationwide chain of coffee shops. Their coffee, their whole scheme, isreliable and mediocre, so the artfucky kids at Kennedy mock Stubb's. Which seems unjust. Reliable mediocrity, I've decided, is the most important thing for the continuation of human existence. We can't get by on Romantic disaster. We would die of exhaustion.
Anyway, it happened at the Stubb's on Wisconsin Avenue, near M Street, where the hump of the avenue dips down toward the soapy-looking grayish water of the Potomac River. Someone came in one night and slaughtered Kevin and the other two people workingthere. One had a memorable name: Turquoise Tull. She was twenty-three. The other was some guy named Brandon Gambuto. The shooter just laid into them: two shots in the manager, Turquoise, one in the other guy, and twelve in Kevin, according to the salivatingarticle. By this "feature writer" (according to his byline) for the Post, Archer B. Sexton. (What kind of a name is that? Its components are interchangeable, and therefore it's nonhuman.) You know the kind of thing I mean: "Kevin Broadus was a model studentat Kennedy High School. Turquoise Tull was a hardworking single mother. Brandon Gambuto was an aspiring musician. All of them died last week in what some are call...
Revue de presse :
Nonetheless--judged by my actions--I am a bad person. Let's get that clear, so you don't have any misconceptions. For more than one-fifth of my life to date, I was a drug dealer, albeit a minor one, and a client of more successful, higher-volume drug dealers,who are in turn clients of bigger firms, and so on and so on until infinity. Grim, right? Human, but grim. I owned a digital pharmacy scale. An expensive black safe, which at the peak of my prosperity contained $12,380 in four shoe boxes, the cash organizedin bundles by denomination. (How lame is that!) A gun, although that was a later acquisition. A suspicious supply of Biggie-brand plastic bags. A pager. All the sordid, dead-giveaway equipment.
I am eighteen years and five days old. I live in a tree-heavy upper-middle-class neighborhood in Washington, D.C., with my father, who makes clay pots. He also teaches classes at our city's semi-renowned art academy, the Cochrane Institute. Classes abouthow to make clay pots. My name is Addison Schacht, if you can believe it: my dead mother's dead father was named Addison. Because I am an unknown quantity, I am unpopular, even now, my last year, in my class at John F. Kennedy Senior High School. How unknown,you ask? I could not, under pain of death, tell you where a single member of my class wants to attend college, that's how little I have to do with them. I have no extracurricular activities beyond the study of Latin and the collection of offensive jokes aboutthe Holocaust. I live on X Street, on the Xth floor, I weigh X pounds. What do you want? An index of my soul? My dick measurements? I could give them; I'm not ashamed or anything. But would they help you understand? This whole involved and stupefying story has been gnawing away at me, though. Which is why I'm writing it. To like unburden myself. I've wasted enoughtime. And I'm not unintelligent; don't think that. On every practice test I took, my scores were identical to what I ended up getting on the real SAT: 770 verbal and 650 math. This is from three sets of results. How's that for precision? On my battery of AdvancedPlacement tests, I scored three fives and two fours. I've got nothing else. Except for one silver and one gold medal on the National Latin Exam. Latin literature is devoid of most human feeling, but I'm still proud of my medals: my teachers have been a goddamnembarrassment.
Selling weed did not figure in my list of permanent plans when I started four years ago, right after I arrived at Kennedy. Just a little, at first. But it was easy, and more challenging than my classwork. It also gave me a foothold in the school's ecology,which I wouldn't otherwise have discovered. I didn't think overmuch about it. People wanted it, they came to expect I could provide it, and then I found myself the proprietor of a small but flourishing business. I promised myself that I'd stop when I graduated.Just for practical reasons. And I did manage to stop doing it, even before my target date. This was not out of volition. Circumstance played its usual forceful role, in the form of a classmate of mine named Kevin Broadus.
Kevin was this quiet, stocky kid, a marching-band geek. I didn't really know him, except to nod at between classes. And because he was one of the handful of black kids in the Gifted and Talented Program, I was just sort of aware of him. At least untilour junior year, when, about five months before the brutal events occurred that got his name in the papers, Kevin did something that I found . . . admirable is maybe the best word. Or not admirable, because it's presumptuous to admire someone you don't speakto on a regular basis. But uncompromising. It happened in February. Ms. Prather, our English teacher last year, was going on and on in this artificial way about what's called "black history." February, as I'm sure you know, is Black History Month, an occasionof much wariness and nervous self-congratulation among the teachers in the Gifted and Talented Program here at Kennedy. We learn, every year, the same tired story, like a long round in a game: the founders were hypocrites, the Three-Fifths Compromise was bad,the Dred Scott decision was bad, Frederick Douglass good, Booker T. Washington bad, Tuskegee Experiment bad, Tuskegee Airmen good, Langston Hughes good, jazz good, and we're all still racists today. Thanks for playing! It's like this compressed version of Americanhistory, one that fails to do justice to all the complex nonsense that people get up to in political life, and also fails completely to convey any real sense of how awful life must have been (and in a lot of ways still is) in America for slaves and their descendants.It's like a gesture. I don't know how else to describe it.
So: we were talking about Music and Its Relation to African American Literature. And Ms. Prather was in the spitty middle of her oration about how great it was that African American literature was not constrained in the way the other literature of itstime was, how it was filled with a new and vital energy, a rhythmic current. A lot of the kids in my class nodded along, some of them actually convinced. And after she had reached her crescendo, waving her hands and making her voice throb, after she had herlittle like orgasm or whatever, she stopped and looked at Kevin and said, "But let's ask our resident musician. Don't you agree, Mr. Broadus?" I wish I could communicate the hideous empty quiet that followed her remark. Everyone craned around in their woodenchair-desk combo sets to stare at Kevin, who gazed at his hands. The afternoon sun slanted down and blanked out his glasses. And he said, "Not particularly." That's all. Ms. Prather stood with her hands lifted and her mouth open. She looked hurt, wobbly-eyedat Kevin's betrayal. The silence persisted. Then Ms. Prather sighed and said, "Well, it's generally accepted, Kevin." More silence. Kevin spoke again. "Yeah, but if it's accepted, why did you ask me." Someone spluttered a laugh into cupped hands. Ms. Pratherhad literally nothing to say. So she repeated herself. As though Kevin did not exist. And we continued with our lesson. This is the only clear memory I have of Kevin speaking in class. Again, I don't want to presume and call it admirable. But it demonstrated real brassiness of balls, in my opinion. I wantedto congratulate him, but he lost himself among the sighing after-class crowd before I could. It's lucky, I guess: that would have been a kind of presumption, too.
Kennedy is a segregated school, I should mention. Not because black kids are less able or whatever, but because--and I'm theorizing here--because my neighborhood and the other neighborhoods that provide it with its white students are filled with the kindof parents who just love black people--in the abstract. And Kennedy is majority black, by a considerable margin. And they (the neighborhood parents, I mean) all originally wanted their kids to go to private school, anyway. So all these ex-hippie history andEnglish teachers at Kennedy like twenty years ago set up this little 90 percent white school inside Kennedy, the Gifted and Talented Program, and they let in six black kids or so every year to balm their consciences, and set up pantomimes like Black HistoryMonth and Diversity Outreach (which is just as horrifyingly inept as its name suggests). Although if they had consciences would they have set up these internal divisions in the first place? But whatever. Kevin stood out because of all these accidents, thesecircumstances. Through no fault of his own he was visible. He played in the marching band, like I said: baritone saxophone. And he worked after school at Second Mate Stubb's, which is a nationwide chain of coffee shops. Their coffee, their whole scheme, isreliable and mediocre, so the artfucky kids at Kennedy mock Stubb's. Which seems unjust. Reliable mediocrity, I've decided, is the most important thing for the continuation of human existence. We can't get by on Romantic disaster. We would die of exhaustion.
Anyway, it happened at the Stubb's on Wisconsin Avenue, near M Street, where the hump of the avenue dips down toward the soapy-looking grayish water of the Potomac River. Someone came in one night and slaughtered Kevin and the other two people workingthere. One had a memorable name: Turquoise Tull. She was twenty-three. The other was some guy named Brandon Gambuto. The shooter just laid into them: two shots in the manager, Turquoise, one in the other guy, and twelve in Kevin, according to the salivatingarticle. By this "feature writer" (according to his byline) for the Post, Archer B. Sexton. (What kind of a name is that? Its components are interchangeable, and therefore it's nonhuman.) You know the kind of thing I mean: "Kevin Broadus was a model studentat Kennedy High School. Turquoise Tull was a hardworking single mother. Brandon Gambuto was an aspiring musician. All of them died last week in what some are call...
Addison Schacht, the conflicted hero of The November Criminals, is less interested in committing a crime than solving one. And though no one in the admissions office at the University of Chicago has asked Addison to discuss the murder of his high school classmate Kevin Broadus, he uses the application's essay assignment ('What is your best quality? What is your worst quality?') as a chance to get some things off his chest. The result is no tidy, eager-to-please essay but a book-length spiel - concerning, among other things, Virgil's Aeneid, Holocaust jokes, dope dealing, friends with benefits, classic cinema, adolescent ennui, Latin grammar and syntax, Jewish numerology, anti-Semitism, struggles with guilt, the hypocrisy of liberal politics, race relations in the United States, the philosophical downside of living in D.C. and, oh yeah, who killed Kevin Broadus. . . . The November Criminals is both a thoughtful coming-of-age story and an engaging teenage noir. Think of it as an existential murder mystery for the stoner pre- college set - Keanu Reeves's River's Edge, as written by Camus. . . . Munson is a writer with something to say; and if saying it slows the pace, well, given the brash voice of this audacious new writer, I wonder if he'd have it any other way. (The NEW YORK TIMES)
Munson is a freewheeling stylist and expert mimic, having installed in his narrator, with dead-on accuracy, the highly developed tragic sense that only an over-privileged 18-year-old can effect without irony. . . As a general rule, book publicists who make breathless comparisons to Holden Caulfield should be caned, but [...] Schacht really is Holden's amoral 21st-century cousin: He shares the profane slanginess and the petulant self-righteousness of Salinger's famous malcontent. (The WASHINGTON POST)
Sam Munson's first novel . . . has the inventive, expansive flare of Michael Chabon's best writing and the highbrow-crime intrigue of a Donna Tartt book. The story is a classic coming-of-age tale: getting into college, smoking dope, navigating best-friendship with someone of the opposite sex - oh, and investigating a classmate's murder. (VANITY FAIR)
A clever debut starring a stoner, Gen Y Holden-like teen. Sam Munson's debut novel, narrated by Jewish stoner teen misanthrope Addison Schacht, nails the adolescent voice perfectly while leading us through his stumbling attempt to solve a mystery. Addison's witty, wandering asides reference everything from the Aeneid to Latin syntax to his favourite movies, as he finds himself right in the middle of the mystery he's been trying to solve. (The DAILY BEAST)
In The November Criminals, Sam Munson - a writer of spectacular talent - delivers a hugely entertaining read as well as penetrating social and political commentary . . . Munson has written elsewhere about the difficulty he experienced trying to inhabit the mind of 'a full-bore, professional-grade a**hole.' But he needn't have doubted, for a moment, his substantial empathic gifts, which rival Bellow's and Roth's . . . Munson has written one of the funniest, most heartfelt novels in recent memory - a book every bit as worthy of Mark Twain and J. D. Salinger - about the goodwill and decency that sometimes shrouds itself in adolescent vulgarity and swagger. (The CHICAGO TRIBUNE)
In response to a college-application question, high-school senior Addison produces this scathing mea culpa, which takes the form of a rambling, first-person rant . . . His outer blankness of character ("I have no personality to speak of," he insists) conceals a hyper-intelligence that recklessly leads to a (rather hilarious) mid-novel assault on the apparent killer. The book has every earmark of a debut: bratty, precocious, tangential, and in love with its own voice, yet Munson ably reminds us why such qualities are irresistible in the first place. (BOOKLIST)
Munson's funny, stoner-friendly debut follows high school senior Addison Schacht as he stumbles through the Washington, D.C., teenage underworld to investigate a classmate's unsolved murder. Schacht - a small-time pot dealer, consummate anti-social, and Jewish collector of Holocaust jokes - makes for a poor but entertaining detective, and when he places a stoned phone call to his prime suspect, Addison and his friends become caught up in the mystery he set out to solve. As Addison's sleuthing begins to unravel and his life crumbles along with it, his ramblings offer an interesting counter to, and often context for, his misguided attempt to discover the truth . . . Munson nails the voice. (PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY)
Oh, oh, oh. OH! The November Criminals is funny. I started laughing as I read page one and I was still laughing on the very last page . . . The whole thing captures the adolescent voice perfectly. Addison wanders about, being disaffected, ridiculously self-aware, rude, self-centred and generally as obnoxious as privileged teenagers can be. It's all very Holden Caulfield but it's not just that: the murder storyline is based on real events. It's wordy and witty and clever. And as up itself as Addison is up himself. You might think that sounds like a criticism but it's not; it's a compliment. I'll say it again. The November Criminals made me laugh. Lots. And that makes it all right by me (TheBookBag.co.uk)
Munson has created a wonderfully sharp, sardonic and engaging protagonist in this black comic take on 21st-century adolescence. (Sydney Morning Herald, Pick of the Week)
If you swear by The Catcher in the Rye, you'll love it. (The Stoke Sentinel)
Munson is a freewheeling stylist and expert mimic, having installed in his narrator, with dead-on accuracy, the highly developed tragic sense that only an over-privileged 18-year-old can effect without irony. . . As a general rule, book publicists who make breathless comparisons to Holden Caulfield should be caned, but [...] Schacht really is Holden's amoral 21st-century cousin: He shares the profane slanginess and the petulant self-righteousness of Salinger's famous malcontent. (The WASHINGTON POST)
Sam Munson's first novel . . . has the inventive, expansive flare of Michael Chabon's best writing and the highbrow-crime intrigue of a Donna Tartt book. The story is a classic coming-of-age tale: getting into college, smoking dope, navigating best-friendship with someone of the opposite sex - oh, and investigating a classmate's murder. (VANITY FAIR)
A clever debut starring a stoner, Gen Y Holden-like teen. Sam Munson's debut novel, narrated by Jewish stoner teen misanthrope Addison Schacht, nails the adolescent voice perfectly while leading us through his stumbling attempt to solve a mystery. Addison's witty, wandering asides reference everything from the Aeneid to Latin syntax to his favourite movies, as he finds himself right in the middle of the mystery he's been trying to solve. (The DAILY BEAST)
In The November Criminals, Sam Munson - a writer of spectacular talent - delivers a hugely entertaining read as well as penetrating social and political commentary . . . Munson has written elsewhere about the difficulty he experienced trying to inhabit the mind of 'a full-bore, professional-grade a**hole.' But he needn't have doubted, for a moment, his substantial empathic gifts, which rival Bellow's and Roth's . . . Munson has written one of the funniest, most heartfelt novels in recent memory - a book every bit as worthy of Mark Twain and J. D. Salinger - about the goodwill and decency that sometimes shrouds itself in adolescent vulgarity and swagger. (The CHICAGO TRIBUNE)
In response to a college-application question, high-school senior Addison produces this scathing mea culpa, which takes the form of a rambling, first-person rant . . . His outer blankness of character ("I have no personality to speak of," he insists) conceals a hyper-intelligence that recklessly leads to a (rather hilarious) mid-novel assault on the apparent killer. The book has every earmark of a debut: bratty, precocious, tangential, and in love with its own voice, yet Munson ably reminds us why such qualities are irresistible in the first place. (BOOKLIST)
Munson's funny, stoner-friendly debut follows high school senior Addison Schacht as he stumbles through the Washington, D.C., teenage underworld to investigate a classmate's unsolved murder. Schacht - a small-time pot dealer, consummate anti-social, and Jewish collector of Holocaust jokes - makes for a poor but entertaining detective, and when he places a stoned phone call to his prime suspect, Addison and his friends become caught up in the mystery he set out to solve. As Addison's sleuthing begins to unravel and his life crumbles along with it, his ramblings offer an interesting counter to, and often context for, his misguided attempt to discover the truth . . . Munson nails the voice. (PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY)
Oh, oh, oh. OH! The November Criminals is funny. I started laughing as I read page one and I was still laughing on the very last page . . . The whole thing captures the adolescent voice perfectly. Addison wanders about, being disaffected, ridiculously self-aware, rude, self-centred and generally as obnoxious as privileged teenagers can be. It's all very Holden Caulfield but it's not just that: the murder storyline is based on real events. It's wordy and witty and clever. And as up itself as Addison is up himself. You might think that sounds like a criticism but it's not; it's a compliment. I'll say it again. The November Criminals made me laugh. Lots. And that makes it all right by me (TheBookBag.co.uk)
Munson has created a wonderfully sharp, sardonic and engaging protagonist in this black comic take on 21st-century adolescence. (Sydney Morning Herald, Pick of the Week)
If you swear by The Catcher in the Rye, you'll love it. (The Stoke Sentinel)
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- ÉditeurAtom
- Date d'édition2015
- ISBN 10 0349002398
- ISBN 13 9780349002392
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Description du livre Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. 'What are your best and worst qualities?'This is the title of the essay Addison Schacht has to write to gain a place at his chosen university. Straightaway, Addison sees an opportunity to tell his story-so-far: to unburden himself, so to speak.And boy is there a lot to unburden. His 'business' - dealing pot to his peers - is booming, and requires a certain extra effort. His relationship with Digger, his best friend (NOT girlfriend), is getting 'complicated', as they say. His classmate Kevin was murdered point blank, and now Addison can't stop thinking about who killed him, and why? And then there's the small question of the rest of his life . . . Over the course of his unorthodox application, Addison confess his triumphs, tragedies, strengths, weaknesses, blessings and curses to his academic jury.The November Criminals is the darkest, most raucous and unconventional love story/murder mystery/ coming-of-age crossover you will read this year. A dark and hilarious pot-infused novel of teenage maladjustment from a compelling new voice in American fiction. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. N° de réf. du vendeur 9780349002392
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Description du livre Paperback / softback. Etat : New. New copy - Usually dispatched within 4 working days. A dark and hilarious pot-infused novel of teenage maladjustment from a compelling new voice in American fiction. N° de réf. du vendeur B9780349002392
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The November Criminals
Edité par
Corsair
(2015)
ISBN 10 : 0349002398
ISBN 13 : 9780349002392
Neuf
Couverture souple
Quantité disponible : 10
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Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : New. A dark and hilarious pot-infused novel of teenage maladjustment from a compelling new voice in American fiction. Num Pages: 240 pages. BIC Classification: FA. Category: (G) General (US: Trade). Dimension: 155 x 234 x 24. Weight in Grams: 322. . 2015. Paperback. . . . . Books ship from the US and Ireland. N° de réf. du vendeur V9780349002392
Acheter neuf
EUR 25,23
Autre devise
Image d'archives
The November Criminals
Edité par
Corsair
(2015)
ISBN 10 : 0349002398
ISBN 13 : 9780349002392
Neuf
Couverture souple
Quantité disponible : 10
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Etat : New. A dark and hilarious pot-infused novel of teenage maladjustment from a compelling new voice in American fiction. Num Pages: 240 pages. BIC Classification: FA. Category: (G) General (US: Trade). Dimension: 155 x 234 x 24. Weight in Grams: 322. . 2015. Paperback. . . . . N° de réf. du vendeur V9780349002392
Acheter neuf
EUR 27,69
Autre devise
Image d'archives
The November Criminals
Edité par
Little, Brown Book Group
(2015)
ISBN 10 : 0349002398
ISBN 13 : 9780349002392
Neuf
PAP
Quantité disponible : 10
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. Established seller since 2000. N° de réf. du vendeur HU-9780349002392
Acheter neuf
EUR 14,90
Autre devise
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The November Criminals (Paperback)
Edité par
Little, Brown Book Group, London
(2015)
ISBN 10 : 0349002398
ISBN 13 : 9780349002392
Neuf
Paperback
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. 'What are your best and worst qualities?'This is the title of the essay Addison Schacht has to write to gain a place at his chosen university. Straightaway, Addison sees an opportunity to tell his story-so-far: to unburden himself, so to speak.And boy is there a lot to unburden. His 'business' - dealing pot to his peers - is booming, and requires a certain extra effort. His relationship with Digger, his best friend (NOT girlfriend), is getting 'complicated', as they say. His classmate Kevin was murdered point blank, and now Addison can't stop thinking about who killed him, and why? And then there's the small question of the rest of his life . . . Over the course of his unorthodox application, Addison confess his triumphs, tragedies, strengths, weaknesses, blessings and curses to his academic jury.The November Criminals is the darkest, most raucous and unconventional love story/murder mystery/ coming-of-age crossover you will read this year. A dark and hilarious pot-infused novel of teenage maladjustment from a compelling new voice in American fiction. Shipping may be from our UK warehouse or from our Australian or US warehouses, depending on stock availability. N° de réf. du vendeur 9780349002392
Acheter neuf
EUR 20,88
Autre devise